The Duke of Snow and Apples (9 page)

Chapter Nine

“All you all right, Freddy?” Tall John asked, his voice muffled by the handkerchief tied around his face. He shut the door to the still-room, but threads of purple smoke continued to leak out underneath.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t breathe too much of it in,” Freddy replied, coughing.

“That’s not what I meant,” Tall John said. He waved to Ellie, one of the stricken-looking still-room maids. “We’ve opened the windows inside, but we need to stuff something under the door.”

Ellie nodded, her face sprinkled with lavender freckles. She gave Frederick a small smile. “I’ll look for the spare linens.”

Patricia, the other still-room maid, stood next to Lady Leighwood and tried to pat her hand in a comforting manner. “It’s all right, milady. There’s no harm done.” Both women appeared unhurt, although the countess’s hands were stained violet all the way up to her elbows and Patricia’s hair approached the shade of a ripe plum.

Lady Leighwood sniffed. “I was close to obtaining the perfect recipe. I know I was. The Benine glyph for ‘restoration’ combined with the Kelock symbol for ‘color’ should have worked, but I neglected to calculate how the sorrowroot in the mixture would react with the spells.”

“New recipes take time,” Patricia said in a soothing tone. Relatively new to the Dowagers’ staff, she’d replaced a girl who’d quit after having her eyebrows singed off one too many times.

“I know perfectly well how potions are concocted!” Lady Leighwood snapped. Several frizzy, gray curls had slipped out of her tight chignon.

“Shipley said you had a rough night,” Tall John said, dragging Frederick back to an unwanted conversation. “Thought you were ill.”

“Well, I’m better.” Frederick avoided Tall John’s eyes. When Ellie returned with spare linens, the footmen pressed them into the space under the door to keep the unfortunate results of Lady Leighwood’s potion from escaping.

“Are you?” Tall John arched a sandy eyebrow. “You’ve been acting…out of sorts lately.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tall John stared.

“I guess I’m just in a bad temper.”

“Since when do you have a temper?”

Frederick tried to control his expression and failed.

“Ah, Miss Charlotte,” said Tall John, taking Frederick’s silence as confirmation.

“What’s this about Miss Charlotte?” asked Ellie, tucking an errant red curl under her cap. “I overheard the lady’s maids talkin’ and they say the girl’s a right terror.”

“She’s nothing of the sort,” said Frederick. “Can we find a more appropriate subject for discussion?”

“So it’s true!” said Ellie. “She’s managed to break our own dear Snow, has she?”

“I’m allowed to lose my temper,” Frederick growled.

“Except you never have,” Tall John said. “Not in the ten years I’ve known you, at least, and you’ve had plenty of opportunities to. If it’s taken this long for you to show a bit of teeth, there has to be a reason. Is she getting to you?”

“No.”

Ellie smirked. “Maybe she’s sweet on you.”

“Maybe I’m sweet on
you
,” Frederick countered, summoning a false levity to hide how close she’d come to the truth.

“M-mercy, Freddy.” Ellie flushed beneath her purple freckles and dropped her gaze. “Your charm overwhelms me. I didn’t mean to tease.”

Before Frederick could muster an apology, Mr. Lutter strode toward the still-room. The house steward gazed at the blocked door with a face politely devoid of expression.

“Another failure.” Lady Leighwood sighed.

“Any structural damage?”

“Not this time.”

“Any repairs that need attending to?”

“I’ll need a new cauldron,” Lady Leighwood said. “And I fear the second-largest basin may be cracked. Otherwise, it was a fairly harmless explosion.” She waved a violet finger. “The color should fade with time.”

“Thank the Maiden,” Ellie whispered.

“Very well then,” Mr. Lutter said. He turned and saw Frederick. “Ah, that reminds me. Freddy, can you spare a moment?”

The house steward waited until they reached a deserted part of the house before he spoke. “Freddy, I had an interesting conversation with her ladyship about Miss Charlotte Erlwood.”

Outwardly, Frederick showed no reaction, not even a break in stride, although his legs felt like lead and every last drop of moisture deserted his mouth, making it hard to swallow.
Of course she would have told someone.
Charlotte wasn’t a fool. Even if she wasn’t able to explain how he’d dazzled her with magic, his kiss alone was enough to warrant an instant dismissal without references.

“Her ladyship came by my office personally to tell me what her grandniece had reported to her,” Mr. Lutter continued.

I’m losing my position.
He’d worked for the Dowagers since he was fifteen years old.
Where am I going to go now?
Certainly not back to Snowmont Abbey. Rising anxiety began to beat a frantic rhythm against the wall of his control.

Mr. Lutter stopped and turned so that he and Frederick stood face-to-face. Then he smiled. “She says her grandniece thanked her profusely for the services of her footman,
particularly
for the extraordinary services rendered at Lord and Lady Mettle’s ball, going so far as to mention you by name! I do believe the word
indispensable
came up more than once. Excellent work, my boy!”

Frederick’s mouth worked, but his brain lagged a step or two behind. “Extraordinary s-services?”

“Her ladyship insists those were Miss Charlotte’s very words!
Extraordinary. Indispensable.
” His waved his hand with a flourish after every one, as if spelling them out in the air. “What do you say to that, Freddy?”

I’d say there’s been a very terrible mistake, and that any actual words used to describe me wouldn’t be suitable for polite company.

Mr. Lutter only beamed in a fatherly way at Frederick’s flabbergasted silence. “I don’t understand why I persist in being surprised at your success. You’ve confronted every task set to you with alacrity, efficiency, and most important of all, dignity. In fact, I would like to invite you to dine with us today.”

“With you?” Somewhere along the way here Frederick must have fallen and hit his head. Or breathed in too much of that purple smoke. Maybe it was still last night and his brain offered one last hallucination before he froze to death on that blasted carriage platform.

“With the Upper Ten,” Mr. Lutter replied. “We dine at one o’clock sharp, and you shall be excused from table duties for as much time as you need to change into formal clothing. Wigs and shoulder-knots are strictly prohibited in the Pug’s Parlor.” He waggled a finger with a fatherly smile. “I think it’s high time you had a taste of how rewarding advancement can be. Who knows? Perhaps by this time next year, you’ll be
Mr. Snow
.”

With that last cheerful remark, Mr. Lutter marched ahead, and Frederick could only stand and gape as the steward disappeared around a corner. He’d been invited to dine with the
Upper Ten
. Upper servants and lower servants rarely socialized except on special occasions like the masses or Saints’ Day. For a footman to break bread next to butlers and valets, in the housekeeper’s own private parlor was unthinkable unless a promotion was certain.

Certain, but deserved?

…

To Charlotte’s dismay, around midmorning, the looming gray sky gave vent to a freezing drizzle that put a swift end to any and all plans for outdoor activities, and so parlor games took place in the library instead. Mrs. Colton suggested a game of Cat’s Eye. Instinctively, Charlotte pasted a bland smile onto her face and placed her hands in her lap.

Mr. Oswald, chosen to be “It,” left the library, and as soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Mrs. Colton took out a small piece of paper and wrote a quick spell on it, a simple interlocking of Kelok glyphs.

“I can’t hold this,” Mrs. Colton said, laughing. “It will be too obvious. Who wants to hide the spell on themselves?”

Charlotte drew back behind her familiar armor of reserve, imagining cold metal and impenetrable chain mail. It would be best to let another person hide the spell and play along with everyone else. She didn’t want to come across as too giddy or foolish, or over-pleased with games…

Over-pleased with games?
Frederick’s words echoed in her mind:
“Boring, stilted, false.” What in hells am I thinking?

When Mr. Oswald finally reentered the room, all the players adopted falsely innocent poses, and it took seven full minutes before he pointed a finger at Charlotte.

“Aha!” he said. “I spy with my Cat’s Eye, that Miss Charlotte Erlwood is hiding the spell! Your eyes were brown before, and green now!”

“I was hoping you’d merely think me overcome with envy!” Charlotte replied, prompting laughter from the other players. Relaxing moment by moment, she continued to play parlor games for a good hour and a half of complete, unfettered enjoyment.
Unfettered
was the very word for it. During her desperate social efforts in Glenson, her arch expressions of enjoyment had felt bolted on, her neck impossibly stiff, her arms as heavy as lead. Certainly too heavy to reenact the Allmarchian victory at Cheloi to win the game of charades for the third time, which she now did.

What would Sylvia say about my behavior, if she could see me now?
She would probably collapse into a dead swoon. Onto a conveniently placed couch, of course. She missed the days when Sylvia had thrown her favorite sort of temper tantrums, by setting her feet apart, plugging her ears, and screaming with spoiled abandon until she was appeased or punished. Back then, no one could have mistaken what Sylvia wanted, before she’d chosen to hide behind society’s innumerable rules of behaviour.

Charlotte realized that many of her sister’s dearly prized rules held little to no sway outside the staid environs of Glenson. Lady Balrumple’s guests laughed loudly. They had more important things to talk about than the weather. They did not find unconventional interests offensive—quite the opposite, in fact.

She suspected Sylvia would last exactly thirty seconds in the Seven Dowagers’ household before she ran screaming back to Papa and Stepmama.

She returned to her room to dispose of her correspondence feeling oddly buoyant. However, a thin, sharp wire of doubt thrummed a discordant note underneath her enjoyment. If she didn’t hold onto
some
rules of propriety, to some sense of structure, who was to say she wouldn’t accidentally go too far and ruin everything?

After what Sylvia and Mr. Peever had done to her, Charlotte could no longer trust herself as an accurate reader of people. Who was to say she wasn’t already making a fool of herself, and the other houseguests were simply humoring her for Aunt Hildy’s benefit? Tales of her incompetence could very well be winging across the sky on the backs of eager sylphs. Perhaps Sylvia had already heard of Charlotte’s behavior at the ball and had sent her letter to demand she return home and repair her reputation.

Charlotte’s fist clenched around the letter in her pocket, crumpling the paper. She’d be damned if she returned on Sylvia’s account. She drew the unopened envelope out of her pocket, a few words in Benine already rising up in her throat. She focused her mind, concentrated, drawing all other thoughts of logic and foresight and common sense out of her head till only the single glowing thread of magic remained. She spoke the words of a fire spell for combustion, the ancient Fey words pealing like a bell.

However, despite her best efforts, the wriggling thread of connection to fire slipped in Charlotte’s mental grip. She could never hold onto fire for long, curse it all. The edges of the envelope singed in her hands, smoking a little. Hardly an impressive show of anger. It would serve her right if she woke up with extra blemishes for using a magic she was weak with. Spots, maybe, or scales if she was truly unfortunate.

With a frustrated sigh, she tossed the balled-up letter away.

It landed and rolled across the carpet toward the window—where it instantly burst into white-hot flame.

“Blast!” Charlotte cried. Flames licked up the beautiful green draperies with daunting speed. She snatched a gold-embroidered cushion off a chair and tried to beat at the fire, coughing as acrid smoke began to fill the room. All thoughts of magic and concentration spun out of her head. The crackling flames ignored her futile efforts, clawing their way up the drapes and spitting sparks. She needed water. She needed help.

She dashed toward the bed and yanked at the bell-pull. “Frederick! Frederick!”

A few moments later, the door opened, and a tall, dark-haired gentleman strode into the room. Taking one look at the infant conflagration, he muttered a few words in Benine, causing the flames to hiss and shrink. As the flames died, so did Charlotte’s momentary panic.

I know perfectly well how to douse a fire, but trust me to lose my head and look like a fool in front of a stranger.
She retreated to the realm of more familiar spells, calling on a swift wind spell. A small, controlled vortex whirled around the remaining flames, sucking out all the air until the fire died completely. All that remained was a roomful of smoke, some severely singed curtains, and the dark-haired gentleman.

“I’m not usually this incompetent with magic, sir,” Charlotte said. She rushed to the window and cracked it open to let out the smoke. She lifted her head and jutted out her chin. “I’m a regular prodigy with wind spells. But with this one, I simply lost my concentration—” The words died in her mouth as recognition dawned. “
Frederick
?”

You look like a gentleman
, she nearly blurted.
And you cast magic like one, too
. She hadn’t counted on how difficult it was to identify him without his vibrant livery. Without his wig, his real hair was a deep, glossy black, shorn close to the scalp but not closely enough to hide its tendency to curl. He wore a well-fitted but plain black jacket, a faded navy-blue waistcoat, and fawn-colored breeches. His cravat, loosely tied in a standard knot, was slightly crooked, as if he’d done it himself in haste.